“And papa?” asked she, suddenly,—“what was he,—an elder or a younger son?”
It was all that Beecher could do to maintain a decent gravity at this question. To be asked about Grog Davis's parentage seemed about the drollest of all possible subjects of inquiry; but, with an immense effort of self-restraint, he said,—
“I never exactly knew; I rather suspect, however, he was an only child.”
“Then there is no title in our family?” said she, inquiringly.
“I believe not; but you are aware that this is very largely the case in England. We are not all 'marquises' and 'counts' and 'chevaliers,' like foreigners.”
“I like a title; I like its distinctiveness: the sense of carrying out a destiny, transmitting certain traits of race and kindred, seems a fine and ennobling thing; and this one has not, one cannot have, who has no past. So that,” said she, after a pause, “papa is only what you would call a 'gentleman.'”
“'Gentleman' is a very proud designation, believe me,” said he, evading an answer.
“And how would they address me in England,—am I 'my Lady'?”
“No, you are Miss Davis.”
“How meanly it sounds,—it might be a governess, a maid.”